


Back from the Fickle Dawn

by midnightprelude



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders has nightmares, Comfort, Fenders, Fenris needs to sleep, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, or are they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude
Summary: They close their eyes, haunted by memories of their pasts, visions of their futures. A scream in the night is met with a hand, gentle and warm.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris
Comments: 21
Kudos: 91





	1. Stay with me for a while

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trivialsins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trivialsins/gifts).



> The work and chapter titles are from Joanna Newsom's song "Only Skin". Don't worry, I won't be quoting the song in this piece, as fun as it would be to write Anders playing the lute and serenading us all. :)

**FENRIS**

A shout sliced through the silence of the night, causing Fenris to roll over, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife he buried under his bedroll, ready to brandish it at an unseen foe. He had been sleeping as deeply as he ever did, though the memories that haunted him and his training to notice even the slightest rumblings of far off sounds made it difficult to completely rest. The yell had been far from slight and too close for comfort. His eyes adjusted quickly to the near blackness of the tent, turning in the direction of the noise. 

It was only Anders.

The mage clutched his bedroll tightly, face screwed up in an expression that mingled both terror and pain. It was a face Fenris knew well, though he had nearly forgotten after the ability to make it had been stripped away from him by years of training, just like everything else. 

It had always seemed that Anders had been discouraged from showing emotion as well, though he adapted to the change differently than Fenris. Instead of cold indifference, the mage was just warm enough that everything felt feigned. His laughter was always too loud, as though he was trying to convince himself that he was happy. Fenris, of course, knew better. 

Not that he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking on his companions’  _ feelings _ . It was important to know their weaknesses and strengths; it had served him well in battle. He knew when Hawke was hurt, even if she would never admit as much. She stopped talking, generally, unless asked how she fared, to which she always responded too confidently. 

When Merrill was getting weak, she would begin talking even  _ more _ , if that was even possible. Chattering, babbling, talking to their enemies as she slew them with a barrage of spells. 

He knew when Anders was running low on mana. He always seem to push hardest when he was at his weakest physically, running himself past the point any other human mage should have tired. He was not sure if it was his connection to the spirit or something else. He was not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Anders let out a low moan, tossing about in his sleep, the sound bringing Fenris firmly back into the current moment. There was a mage in distress only a few feet from him and he had not the slightest idea of how to proceed. When Anders slept, which was rare enough, he acted more like a helpless child than an apostate maleficar or even a cranky mage. It was strange, seeing the man like this. It seemed he was having a nightmare of some sort, some unimaginable terror that he could not blast with a fireball like he might while waking.

He could wake him, though he knew from experience that waking during a nightmare was often more disorienting and frightening than simply being allowed to let the horror run its course. Besides, Anders slept so little as it was and it was beginning to show both physically and in his moods. He had grown more reckless of late and Fenris was loathe to steal what little sleep the man could get from him. 

Fenris frowned, running his hand through his hair. He did not wish to do  _ nothing _ , but it seemed to be such an invasion of privacy to act in any fashion. Had their positions been reversed, he could not imagine responding well to an intervention by Anders. Fenris lay back down, deciding that Anders could keep his problems. It was not his business and no good would come from inserting himself.

He was nearly asleep again when he heard whimpering next to him. He was feeling something else than the usual antagonism for the mage, something different. A dull pain radiated from his chest. In the darkness, a shadow of a memory, more of an impression than a scene, came to him. Hands clutching, warm and soft, whispered words, a tight grip, then nothing. He did not know if the memory was  _ his _ or something imagined; there was no useful context at all. He felt foolish.

_ I have no idea how to comfort someone. I have no experience of this to draw from.  _

He turned back to Anders, a grim expression etched into both of their features. Anders was breathing too rapidly, his brow knotted, mouth forced into a grimace. With surprise, Fenris realized that he  _ pitied _ Anders. Even though the other man had been been born with  _ lightning  _ at his fingertips, Fenris was feeling sympathy. He thought of what Hawke would do, if she had been woken by the mage. She certainly would have done  _ something _ . Perhaps not the correct thing, but she would not have just left one of her companions to be a victim to their nightmares. Fenris resolved to try. Shifting his bedroll closer to the sleeping man, he touched Anders’s hand, gently prying it from the cloth he clung to so tightly, and wrapped it in his own. 

Anders did not stir, but his muscles seemed to relax, breath evening out over time. His hands were warm and soft, with callouses distinctly felt where he held his staff. After several long minutes, Fenris found himself relaxing too. There was something comforting in touching someone else, even if that person happened to be sleeping, and even if that sleeping person happened to be Anders. He had rarely touched anyone since coming to Kirkwall and could not distinctly remember a time where he held someone’s hand. He had certainly not expected it to be  _ pleasant. _

He hoped his companion would not wake.

He was not willing to risk taking his hand back, not until he was certain Anders was completely asleep. Thus, there was little for him to do other than study Anders’s face. He had never thought himself a proper judge of beauty, such things had never interested him, but he had to admit that Anders seemed to have admirable features. Particularly when he wasn’t rambling on about some nonsense about how mages are powerless victims of circumstance, threatened and reviled, hated and distrusted. No, sleeping, Anders was almost pleasant. He tried to bring up a memory of the mage casually insulting him, to drive the thought away, but he could not recall anything at the moment. 

_ Fasta vass, the idiot is making me feel sorry for him.  _

Anders grip strengthened and Fenris inched closer to him, their noses nearly touching. 

Fenris’s eyes were keen; a product of his heritage. He could see every freckle, every pore on Anders’s face now, even in the near blackness. The broad ridge of his nose, the eyelashes that were inordinately long for a man’s, the hair on his chin that never seemed to go away. Anders shifted slightly and a strand of his hair landed on Fenris’s nose, nearly making him sneeze. He scrunched his nose, trying desperately not to allow his body to destroy the moment.

He was not sure  _ why _ , exactly, but for some reason, he knew that if Anders was disturbed, everything would go back to normal. For some  _ stranger  _ reason, he found himself hoping that it wouldn’t, at least not now. 

It was wonderful to not fight with Anders. It tired him. It wore both of them thin, constantly bickering. He was not sure they would ever agree with each other, but for the moment, Fenris thought that perhaps they could find some semblance of understanding.

Minutes slowly became hours, the night stretching out towards dawn. Fenris’s eyes had long ago grown tired, the warrior falling asleep clutching the hand of the mage, their faces close enough that had they been awake, one could have felt the breath of the other.

Anders was the first to rouse, to Fenris’s horror. The mage’s eyes were already open when Fenris finally woke. 

“Get lonely during the night, then?” Anders asked him, grinning as though he had won a prize. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Hawke.”

Fenris scowled, taking his hand back. “I will not suffer such indignity at your hands, mage.” It was odd how, after a long enough time, a name that had once began as a curse eventually bordered on tenderness.

_ I need to get away from him.  _

He decided that he would not speak another word to Anders for the remainder of their journey. 

Of course, Hawke, with her penchant for trouble and knack for picking up on the slightest changes in their social dynamics, noticed the two men avoiding each other and made special efforts to ensure that Fenris and Anders continued to share a tent for the rest of the journey.

  
  



	2. There was a silence you took to mean something;

**ANDERS**

A week on the Wounded Coast and Anders was feeling well-rested for the first time in ages. He attributed it to the fresh air; living in Darktown he was always worried that the stale sewer would wind up making his patients sicker, but he never considered it could be having an effect on him as well. He was glad to get out of the city and told himself that he would need to make a habit of it. The less tired he was, the more work he could accomplish. He could heal more people, write more, and still have energy to help Hawke whenever she inevitably came calling.

Four of them made their way through the rocky beaches, Merrill and Hawke were chatting cheerily and Fenris silently stalked behind Anders. They had all been acting strangely, the three of them. Anders was beginning to wonder if he was the only one with a shred of sanity left. It was not a comforting thought.

From what he could tell, the two women had not left each other’s sides since they had left Kirkwall. Merrill was blushing even more than usual and Hawke’s slender fingers kept casually brushing against the elf’s skin. It had not escaped his notice, but he decided to bide his time and employ that particular tidbit at the most opportune moment. 

At least Marian and Merrill’s behavior could be easily understood; they were falling in love. He could see it in the way Hawke looked at Merrill; her eyes would linger on the elf for longer than decorous and she was constantly finding excuses to sidle closer to her. Brushing a leaf out of Merrill’s hair, switching watch shifts with Fenris so that she could sleep at the same time as Merrill, offering to help gather firewood even though only one person was needed; Hawke’s actions were as predictable as the rising sun. She wanted to be near Merrill as often as possible. A pang of jealousy stirred in his chest. He loved Hawke too, but he knew that anyone, even a blood mage, could make her happier than he ever could. At least Merrill wasn’t an abomination. She wasn’t Blighted. She could have a future.

_I am happy for them, of course I am; I’m glad they can find love in this mess._

He was, unfortunately, not convinced. The envy remained, tearing at his chest like a dagger. 

As odd as the women were acting, Fenris had been acting even _more_ strangely than the others. He kept giving Anders the strangest looks when he thought he wasn’t looking; the expression was something along the lines of a mixture of pity and sorrow. Anders met his eyes with a raised eyebrow and a scowl and Fenris would smoothly look away, as though he had never been staring in the first place. It may have fooled someone who didn’t know him as well, but Anders had already traveled with Fenris for years. 

He was up to something and Anders neither needed or wanted his pity.

Then there was the matter of their sleeping arrangements. Every night Hawke claimed the larger tent with Merrill, leaving the smaller one for the two men. 

It was cozy and warm, perfectly capable of keeping out the rain and sand and surf, but the quarters were close. It had not escaped his notice that Fenris had been cuddling next to him every night. Their hands were entwined every morning when he awoke. He would often wake up against Fenris’s chest, despite for a certainly not falling asleep there. Fenris had not asked permission and had never mentioned it even in response to Anders’s teasing. Fenris didn’t even try to defend himself and when Anders pressed, he either left entirely or shifted the subject so neatly that Anders had forgotten what they were speaking on. 

Fenris was no use in deciphering the mystery, so he turned to more spiritual means of obtaining answers. He asked Justice for some insight into the elf’s behavior, but he was no help, only stating that Fenris would turn to him and take his hand. He had already assumed that _he_ wasn’t the one grabbing the elf. He wasn’t _insane_. 

The reason _why_ eluded him, though, but he was assuming it was related to the reason Fenris kept looking at him like he was a lost puppy. He resented the sentiment and made a point to swipe at him as often as possible, despite it never seeming to bother the elf. 

As they walked, Anders tried to forget that every morning, he would spend long minutes with his eyes closed, feigning sleep while the elf held him. Fenris’s hands were strong, like the rest of him, calloused, but exceedingly gentle. He could feel the heat radiating off of him, a delicious contrast to the chill of the morning. If he stayed that way too long, he noticed, desire would start to build in the pit of his belly. 

It would be brushed away by opening his eyes and remembering it was Fenris he slept next to. As pretty as the elf may be, he could barely stand speaking to him outside of battle. He didn’t understand how someone could be so _wrong_ about the world. At first he thought he could change Fenris; Anders thought himself a rhetoritician, but the years passed and Fenris was as stalwart in his beliefs as Anders was. He hadn’t given up on changing his mind, not exactly, but was just a step short of it.

Anders was glad he could forget such things when the need arose. 

_A poor memory can be the difference between being able to put one foot in front of the other and huddling in bed, unable to move._

He had no time for huddling, save for those few moments in the morning, before the light of dawn began to pour through the tent, awakening his companion.

Eventually, his reverie was interrupted when Justice alerted him to the group of slavers they had been pursuing. He called out softly to the women who stayed in place. Fenris was already shifting uncomfortably, trying to discern the location of their quarry. He watched the elf finger the pommel of his greatsword, arm reaching behind his neck. 

His eyes lingered on Fenris for a moment too long, drinking in the sight of his slender musculature. Fenris caught his glance and smirked.

“Mage, did your spirit happen to tell you where we could _find_ these slavers or must I do all of the work?”

Anders sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not sure. He just said ‘ahead’.”

Fenris’s grin widened. “That’s enough. If you’re finished gawking, I would suggest you ready yourself. The reports suggest that there are at least a dozen men against the four of us, maybe as many as two dozen. Even with surprise… We’ll likely need your healing.”

“You know,” Anders said shrugging, trying to dampen the anxiety rising in his voice. “We’ve faced worse odds than that before.”

“That we have, but I still would prefer not to die at the hands of slaving scum.” Fenris clearly caught sight of something in the distance and unsheathed his blade in a clean motion that seemed impossible given the size of the man and the apparent heft of the sword. Anders was impressed, not that he would ever say so aloud. He didn’t usually watch Fenris; his eyes were typically on Hawke and her knives. He made a mental note to take more notice of the warrior in the future, if only for the spectacle.

It was only for the spectacle. Not for any other reason. 

They dispatched the slavers easily, Marian slicing at them with her twin daggers, he and Merrill filling the air with fire and lightning, and Fenris tearing through the men like they were no more than warm butter. 

Anders certainly didn’t feel his heart race when Fenris cut the bonds of the slaves. Fenris’s smile at their victory certainly didn’t send a pulse of warmth through his chest. Anders certainly wasn’t taking notice of his muscles rippling as Fenris cleaned his blade. 

Marian’s voice urging them to return home didn’t startle him, of course not. He wasn’t sparing a thought for the moments spent huddled with a man who was as beautiful as he was strange.

He scowled at Fenris, picking up his staff. “Come on, elf, let’s go. I’ll be happy to see the end of this Blighted seashore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Chapter's up early. :)  
> I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing!  
> -MP


	3. My sleeping heart woke,

**FENRIS**

Daylight was fading; shadows filled the halls of Fenris’s decrepit mansion like the memories of all the men who had died here. Fenris danced among them, practicing his movements with a lithe grace. While Danarius still drew breath, he could not allow himself a day of respite from his exercises. The magister could come for him at any moment, ready to seize his property and cart it back to Minrathous, dead or alive. Fenris would not allow him to escape, not again.

And so he danced among the half-forgotten memories of his master’s former house, careful to avoid stepping on remains or rat droppings. 

It was not that he did not wish to live in a clean environment, free from Danarius’s detritus. He could not bring himself to clean something that belonged to the magister; the mere thought revolted him. Hawke had tried and Merrill had brought along buckets to try and mop up the dried blood in the kitchen. Varric said the whole thing should be burned down. Even Anders had seemed concerned that something was going to fall on his head or that Fenris would step on a nail and get an infection or worse. 

Fenris just _couldn’t_ clean it and watching his friends try and accomplish what he could not was no better. Fenris’s mansion remained as disgusting as the day they found it. 

The rooms were darkening and he could hear rain begin to splash on the streets. He could see it starting to drip through the holes in his ceiling. Fenris stretched against the wall. His shoulder was still slightly stiff where one of the slavers had hacked him not two weeks ago. Anders had healed it, of course, but they had a deal. Anders would only heal Fenris as much as was absolutely necessary and allowed the elf’s body to do the rest. Anders had eventually offered the terms when Fenris had refused healing outright, nearly bleeding out in the Bone Pit. Neither one of them were particularly happy about it, but it also pleased both of them more than they were willing to admit.

There were quite a few things about Anders that were baffling to Fenris; the fact that he was an abomination was only the most dramatic example. He could never understand how Anders could prattle on for hours about the injustices that mages suffered, while never considering the injustice sitting right in front of him. Despite his wishes, Fenris was what mages created, the embodiment of their lust for power. If they were freed from their Circles, it was inevitable that they would subjugate those without magic, just as they had in the Imperium. Power always corrupted and mages had it in abundance. Anders was blind and a fool for thinking the South was any different.

Anders had been hurt. He would laugh about it, deflecting, talking about his cats, but the nightmares were evidence of the pain he hid behind that false smile. Fenris wondered if Anders even _realized_ what he was doing or if it had become so natural it was like getting dressed in the morning. Anders was just as broken as he was, powered through each day with little other than a lust for vengeance. Their purposes were parallel: to deal out death as recompense for suffering. 

He was thinking of Anders when a knock at the front door startled him. He swept his outstretched leg around behind him, quickly strapped his sword to his back, and padded to the doorway. He could hear the rain thudding heavily against his rooftop as he opened the door.

A haggard figure, hooded and dripping, greeted him. Anders looked worse than usual, the skin below his eyes so dark they gave him a skeletal appearance. 

He entered slowly, as though walking through Kirkwall had stolen the last of his reserves.

“I can’t take it anymore, Fenris,” Anders croaked, slumping against the wall and creating a puddle with his cloak.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific than that if you’d like me to actually try and help you.”

Anders turned to look at him, shrugging out of his coat. Desperation was staring at Fenris. “Sleep. I haven’t slept. It’s usually not a problem when I don’t, but after we returned I’ve barely slept more than a few hours. I’m exhausted and even lyrium, even _Justice_ is hardly able to keep me going.” Anders’s frown deepened. “What happened when we were on the coast? I thought it was the air, but did you _do_ something to me?”

Fenris rolled his eyes, sighing. He took Anders’s soggy coat from him, draping it over a wooden chair to dry. “Of course you would think I _did something_ to you. The only thing I did on the Wounded Coast was grow tired of you screaming in the night.”

Anders looked at him, confusion casting lines across his face. “Screaming?”

“Yes, screaming, while you were asleep,” Fenris nodded. “Nightmares, I presume. I wasn’t sure, you never said anything intelligible. I got tired of it.” 

“You held me…” Anders shook his head, unbelieving. “You held me because I was having nightmares?”

Fenris shrugged. “It worked, did it not?” He helped Anders to his feet. “You have not slept well since?”

“No, hardly a wink and when I manage to fall asleep at all, it’s only for an hour or so. I’m exhausted, at my wit’s end. I’m not sure if it’s worse than usual or if I just… I may have gotten used to having your help.” Anders seemed flustered, nervously trying to use his damp robe to dry off his even damper hair.

Fenris nodded slowly, motioning Anders to sit in the chair that wasn’t occupied by his dripping cloak. “I see. Is that why you’ve come?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Anders took the seat and turned to look at Fenris, noting the sudden appearance of a smile on the elf’s face. “Oh, you’re… Maker, are you teasing me?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, cocking his head slightly. “I would never do such a thing, not when you look so horribly out-of-sorts.” His smile didn’t disappear.

Anders huffed, shifting in his seat. “I don’t _need_ your help. I’ll just leave then. I don’t know why I…” The mage looked at him hopefully, but Fenris didn’t budge. “Oh, fine. You win. I need your help.”

“Might I ask what you dream of, Anders, that fills you with such fear?”

“The Deep Roads, for one,” he said, sighing. “It’s a Warden thing, our dreams are often haunted by visions of the darkspawn. The visions are _real_ ; our connection to the darkspawn allow us to see them when we sleep. Ever since I completed the Joining, I’ve had the dreams. There are other things too… Kinloch, the Circle I was in, and… there was a man. A mage, he was made Tranquil, shortly after I came to Kirkwall. We were... friends.”

“Your hesitation makes it sound as though you were more than friends, if I may be so bold,” Fenris said, softly. He placed a hand on Anders’s. “I can help you, if you wish.”

Anders looked up at him without the usual scorn or distaste. Fenris was surprised to see something like relief, perhaps even gratitude in his eyes. 

“I have nightmares too,” Fenris said, his voice hardly over a whisper.

Anders’s face was difficult to read. Fenris thought he had grown used to it and understood the mage’s quick changes in moods, but this expression baffled him.

Anders placed his other hand on top of Fenris’s, turning the elf’s over and holding it both of his. 

_Is he trying to be comforting?_

“Did you do it for me or for yourself?” Anders said, his voice matching the tone Fenris’s had just taken.

The corners of Fenris’s lips curled upwards again, just the barest hint of a smile.

“Can it not be both?”

Anders crossed the distance between them, a small smile on his own lips. “It can. Don’t…”

Fenris’s grin widened. It was impossible, strange, and confusing. “I won’t tell Hawke.”

Anders turned his head to the side, wrapping his arms around Fenris. He was still sodden from the rain, his skin cold. His long hair and the feathers on his shoulders had captured the droplets; it dripped onto Fenris’s shoulders. A shiver ran down Fenris’s spine as their lips met; Fenris couldn’t be certain whether it was from the chill or from the surprising warmth of Anders’s lips against his own. 

Hands clutched hair and skin, searching, finding purchase, trailing touches, departing again. Anders was tender and Fenris was too, as though they were afraid to shatter the truce they had so quickly developed. The animosity faded away completely; the process that had begun that first night he had taken his hand had finally come to fruition. Fenris couldn’t hate Anders anymore. And Anders… 

“I was blind, wasn’t I?” he asked softly, while Fenris stared in disbelief. 

“We both were,” the elf added. “It doesn’t need to be that way, though. We have more in common than it first seemed.”

“Pain,” Anders said. “And something more. I’m not sure what that ‘something’ is, yet.”

Fenris chuckled, running his hand through the mage’s hair. “You’re tired. These are things best discussed after one is well-rested.” He kissed his forehead, breathing in the smell of elfroot and firewood.

“Maker, Fenris.” Anders grinned, his smile brightening the dark room. There was no trace of sarcasm in his gaze. “Don’t make me fall for you. I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

Fenris kissed his lips again, pulling him close, fire blooming from every point their bodies touched. 

“A conversation for the morning, my friend.”

Fenris said the last words with such affection that it surprised him. Such a simple phrase imbued with years of frustration and longing, fighting and apologizing, pity and fear. He was starting to believe in the phrase and the promise it held. Anders wasn’t his enemy. He never had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late due to holiday travels, but I finally had a chance to publish the final chapter. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!  
> -MP


End file.
